I Could Have
by SSJL
Summary: A random look at possibilities. In the style of my choosing!
1. Vegas

**A/N: So. I have already proclaimed my intention over at the ABY to go on a semi-hiatus from writing until the completion of my fall wedding. The wedding for which planning has turned me from my normal, slight-neurotic self, to a hugely-neurotic mess. I still stand my intentions. My brain is **_**tapped, **_**ladies and gents.**

**However.**

**The Catch-22 is that there are certain parts of writing that are a great outlet for my anxiety. Hence, this new series of oneshots. It won't require major story development like BWM. It won't require elaborate adherence to certain genres and situations, like Scenes. It will simply be a look at certain possibilities in whatever mood, style, genre, POV, etc. that I am feeling inclined towards. Is that okay? I hope that's okay.**

**In that vein, I present to you my entirely self-indulgent, stress-relieving new series: I Could Have.**

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_**Vegas**_

I believe in facts. Theorizing, hypothesizing, philosophizing, exploring the possibilities…I have little room for them in my world. All that matters is the evidence at hand, actions and their logical consequences.

Usually.

But it is different at night when I am by myself. When the lights are off, and I am alone, safe under the covers, my mind refuses to be tethered to the "what was," or the "what should have." My conscience shrugs. What could be the harm in "what if?" What was the harm of thinking about what I _could _have done, in certain situations that hover delicately in my memory like butterflies tempting me with every flutter of their wings?

If I were a different person. If the stakes were not so high. Maybe I could have…

Like that night in Las Vegas. When we were undercover, and the characters we played oozed sexuality and a not-at-all disguised attraction. When we went back to the hotel room, the one with the single king-sized bed that was completely appropriate for an "engaged to be engaged" couple but _not _for two work partners, we were hyper-aware of each other, uncomfortable with having acted so out-of-character even though there was a very good reason for it. That night, we faced away from one another as we slept on opposite ends of that bed, me ruminating on the case and Booth thinking about…well, about whatever Booth thinks about. Maybe about Cam, who he was dating at the time. He is the guilty sort. Even when he has little reason to be that way. We fell asleep with yards of sheets in between us. By the time he woke up in the morning, I had already showered and dressed. And we didn't talk about the time we shared a bed, ever again. The fact that we were so damn _good _made it easy.

But oh, the things I _could _have done.

I could have woken up with the memory of his arm slung around me easily by the side of that boxing ring, pulling me close, lips inches away from mine, feeling a pleasant heat stir in my tummy at the remembrance of him taking off his jacket and pounding away at that punching bag while the group of appreciative boxers looked on. And I could have done something about it.

I could have rolled over across the empty feet of soft bed, ending with my breasts pressed up against his muscled back. I could have played it innocent, continued with the acting, pretending as if I were still asleep and behaving unconsciously. My hand could have come around to rest on his hip, fingers nearly burning through the soft cotton of his pajama pants. I couldn't have known whether or not he was awake yet, but I would bet that he was. Always, we are acutely aware of each other. He would have woken at my movement, my touch. But just in case, I could have upped the ante, letting the last few fingers of my hand dangle past his hip and brush the front of him. I could almost hear the soft gasp leave his lips as my hand brushed the rapidly swelling hardness of him that grew inside the thin material of those pants. And I could almost hear his mind fight with itself. Was I awake and aware? Did I mean to be touching him this way? Could he thrust forward into my hand the way he wanted to, or would that be taking advantage? Like I said. Booth was the guilty type.

I would know that I was teasing him, and briefly, in the real world, I remind myself that in the world of possibility, teasing has no negative consequences. But I also know that I could have only enjoyed that sense of power for a moment before putting the poor man out of his misery. _"I want…" _I could have whispered, allowed his now fully-awake and vivid imagination fill in the blanks while my fingers flexed and closed over the length of him, hard and huge as cotton-covered steel under my hand, tugging gently so he could feel the soft material moving over him. I could imagine he would feel the hard points of my nipples pressing through both our shirts and into his back, and that the friction of my own shirt would excite me even more, although currently the primary source of my arousal was in arousing him.

He would have probably started to question me, even as his hips jerked in my hand and his breathing increased in volume and pace. "_Bones…why…?" _His voice would have been lost in the groan that left his throat as I released him, slid my hand down the elastic waistband of his pajamas, and came into contact with his bare skin.

"_Because we can." _I could have run my fingertips up and down his now-throbbing cock, feeling the pulsing that was arising from excitement and surprise and the sheer naughtiness of his ultra-professional partner feeling him up in this strange room while we played house undercover. I could have tested his thickness, fisting him in my hand and delighting when my fingers did not quite wrap the whole way around him. He would be gasping softly as I began pulling on his cock excruciatingly slowly, and my thumb could have swiped the silky head of him and spread the pearl-drop of liquid I found there down and over to lubricate my strokes. My own sex would have throbbed and moistened sympathetically, wishing to be my fist, wishing to hold his cock inside of it.

I could have quickened my strokes, not entirely sure where I wanted this to go, where I wanted to take this, but knowing that I could not get enough of the noises he was making out of desire for me. I could have ground my hips against his ass, trying to find some measure of relief from the tension growing inside of me, and to control the things that I myself was feeling, I could have talked to him, continued to tease.

"_Is this what you wanted? When you saw me in that tight dress half-unzipped with my breasts spilling out earlier? When you smacked my ass in that gym and put your arm around me? When you climbed in bed with me tonight, was there part of you that hoped for this??" _Those taunts could have continued to make me feel powerful while I felt my control slip through my fingertips.

But I would know that my words would frustrate him, my actions drive him crazy, because I am not the only one in this partnership who likes to be in control. And I could have done it anyway, not being entirely surprised, but being entirely thrilled when in a second, I found myself flipped onto my back in the center of the bed, his body covering me, holding my wrists with one hand above our heads. _"You trying to make me lose it?" _he would ask, pushing the nearly obscene evidence of his arousal into my belly, maybe trying to intimidate me a little bit.

And I could have been completely honest. I didn't want any more foreplay. I didn't want softness and gentleness. I wanted him. _"Yes."_

There wouldn't have been any more talking then…not with us in that state. I could have helped him tear at the clothes that were separating us, a task interrupted a few times by the very wet, open-mouthed kisses he was pressing down on my lips, ones that I could have returned greedily. And even with the interruptions, it could have only been a matter of seconds before the head of him pressed firmly into my welcoming body, sliding into me like a hot knife into butter while we both whimpered our relief.

I couldn't have held back. I could have thrust up to him demandingly, giving no mind to his ability to last, only concerned with being filled up as completely as I could be, the delicious friction sparking in me. I could have communicated my need for hard and fast with every movement of my body, every sound that came from me, every kiss that I pushed upwards onto him to muffle the little screams that started rising from my throat. I could have grabbed onto his ass and forced him into me at the pace I wanted.

I would have wanted to feel him come inside of me, because in this world there were no consequences, and the thought of him exploding at _my _hand, in _my _body drove me wild beyond words, so I squeezed him inside of me, knowing I was tight, knowing that feeling my excitement would spark his. I would imagine that a string of curses would leave his lips, and could imagine that his incoherency combined with the hugeness of him pummeling me, again and again and again, would be exactly the push I needed to reach my own explosion, crying out against his lips. I could have felt starbursts appearing behind my eyelids as I squeezed my eyes shut hard while the feelings of both our orgasms spread through my whole body. I could have come like I never had before.

I could have. But I didn't. Instead, I played the possibilities to myself alone tonight while my fingers strummed my clit to the biological release I craved.

In the real world, I had played it exactly like I should have. I did exactly the right thing. This _other _possibility…it would have been a Titanic-level disaster. And this is _exactly _why, in the light of day, I adhere to the true. The logical. The _real. _The way it should be.

Which made it even harder to explain why the right thing…completely subjectively, of course…seemed to pale in comparison to the unexplored possibilities.

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**A/N: Thank you for indulging me.**

**Loves.**


	2. Not Blown Up

**A/N: You all are basically the most awesome people in the universe. Thanks for your terrific response to this story, and for your well-wishes regarding the wedding and the wedding planning. If I could, I'd invite you all to sit in the special "Bones" section of the affair, and we could all eat and drink and dance and celebrate and alternate between squee-ing over the cuteness of B/B and the cuteness of me and my new (gasp) husband. Wouldn't that be fun?**

**Btw, not all of these little "could haves" will be smutty. I **_**am **_**capable of innocence sometimes, you know. Like, 10 percent of the time:)**

**Loves.**

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Sometimes in life, events occur that are completely outside of one's control, and it seemed to Seeley Booth that there was little use in imagining what life would be like if those events hadn't occurred. It was an exercise in futility, really. Better to stay focused on the future, and dealing with the fallout of what actually _did _happen…no matter how attractive the alternative may have been.

But sometimes, when he let his guard down…the alternatives rose unbidden from his mind. And the way it could have been teased him with all its tantalizing possibilities.

There was one night…so very long ago…that he had been supposed to spend the night with Temperance Brennan. To protect her from what turned out to be a crooked cop, although he hadn't known that at the time. At the time, all he had known was that someone had committed the unspeakable act of shooting at his partner (while she had been about to commit the unspeakable act of having dinner with some jerk she had met on the internet). And, when he had received that particular news, he knew that he had felt like he was falling continually into some deep abyss, a sickening vertigo that had only lessened a bit upon seeing her alive and well in her lab, stubbornly resisting everyone's concern. As soon as he saw her there, he knew he had to spend the night with her. Otherwise, he wouldn't know where she was or whether she was safe…and he just _couldn't _deal with that feeling again.

And then he had gotten blown up. It was almost laughable now…she was going to _let _him spend the night, and she had relaxed with him, played with him, let him into her world. And that lasted for approximately 5 minutes before he managed to get himself blown up. Although he didn't regret it…if it hadn't been him that opened that rigged refrigerator door, it would have been her, and _that _would have been unacceptable.

But what could have happened if that bomb had never gone off? What if he had been allowed to spend the night without either of them getting blown to smithereens, held at gunpoint, or nearly getting fed to dogs?

He could see it…him returning from the (intact) fridge with his glass of juice in hand, Foreigner music playing just a little more quietly in the background. And, as usual, glancing up at him from the couch, she couldn't have been able to drop her curiosity, her incredulousness. _"I don't understand why you are here," _she'd say, studying him as if she were trying to get answers from one of her skeletons.

And he could have been honest. _"Because I can't _not _be here."_

"_You could have called another agent to guard the place. From outside. Like…according to protocol."_

Of course she would have known what protocol was. Him serving as her bodyguard, there in her apartment, was definitely not standard F.B.I. practice. He could have made up something about feeling responsible for her, as her partner…truthfully, that's probably what he _would _have said. 

But. He could have said something different, as well.

"_If I weren't here, I'd be crazy wondering if you were safe. And if I weren't here, I wouldn't be able to throw myself in front of the bullet if someone shot at you again."_

He could see in his mind the confusion that would fill her lovely blue-gray eyes at his words. _"But…why? Why would you do that?"_

And he could have laughed ruefully as the God's honest truth fell from his lips. _"Because…for reasons I couldn't explain if you tried to torture it out of me…there isn't a hell of a lot I wouldn't do for you, Bones."_

Even in his wildest fantasies, Booth tried to maintain some grip on reality. And in this case…he knew the reality was that part of her would understand the context, and probably run, mumble something about needing to go to bed so she could work tomorrow before throwing a blanket and pillow at him and getting out of the room as fast as those gorgeous legs would take her.

But he could be patient. He could have stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers and lay on couch, soft suede at his back with his hands clasped behind his head on the pillow, not sleeping, ears pricked for the sounds of intruders or the sounds of her sleeping or stirring or fretting. When she finally emerged more than three hours later, he could have been ready for her.

He could have barely seen her, lit only by the moonlight that shone like a halo around the edges of the closed blinds, but he'd move over as much as he could, pressing himself against the back of the couch so that she could sit in the spot where his waist narrowed before widening at his broad chest and muscular hips and legs. He could have waited until she was ready to say what she needed to say, fingers flexing behind his head with the want, the need to touch her.

"_If I hadn't dropped my phone when I was shot at, I'd be dead now."_

"_I know," _he could have said. He did know. It had been all he had been thinking about.

"_I've been working so much so I didn't have to think about it."_

"_I know." _And he had felt badly about taking her away from the thing that helped her forget, helped her cope. But he had to, for both of their sanities.

"_I don't want to die. There is so much I still want…"_

"_I'm afraid, too."_

He could have given her a few moments to process this. She wasn't used to people worrying about her. She wasn't used to them caring. She wasn't used to letting them. After these seconds ticked by, he could have lifted the edge of the blanket that covered him, that she gave to him. She'd likely have hesitated for a heartstopping moment before accepting his offer, sliding her soft, pajama-covered body under the cover and against him, head resting on his chest and tucked directly beneath his chin. Right then, he could have felt that awful plummeting feeling from earlier dissipating completely for the first time, slowly being replaced but a much more pleasant drifting sensation, like a leaf in autumn falling lazily to the ground. They could have been, for the first time, completely safe in one another's arms. He could have inhaled deeply and let all his senses be inundated by the feelings she stirred in him.

"_Sleep, Bones." _He could have smoothed back the silky strands of her hair that tumbled over her face and onto his chest, hand pausing at her ear to hold her head closer to his heart.

"_I still don't know why," _she'd have murmured, beginning the descent into sleep that she should have had hours, days ago.

And he could have mused aloud the first thought that came to his mind. _"Because I think I'm falling in love with you."_

She wouldn't have responded at first, wouldn't have moved, and he might have been half-relieved that she had fallen asleep before she heard his words. Then…

"_Booth…" _Barely audible.

"_Shh. I'll kiss you in the morning." _Before she drifted off, and he followed.

And in the morning…he could have.


	3. Elevator

**A/N: I'm sick. Sick sick sick. Have been awake for approximately 3 of the last 24 hours, the rest of the time lost in heavily-medicated strange dreams. And what do I do with the time that I'm awake? Imagine dirty B/B scenarios, of course. Sigh. Apologies ahead of time if it doesn't made any sense. That cold & sinus medicine is a **_**killah. **_**I did have a looker-over (thanks KJ. Smooches.), but she was tired and takes no responsibility. The little brat;) Loves her!**

'**Til healthier days! Loves.**

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The thing about Bones is that she pretends to be sly, but I'm pretty damn sure that she not only knows exactly when she's provoking me, but she also _enjoys _it. She feels safe playing her little games with me, making me stammer and turn red when sexual innuendos come flowing from those pretty little lips. And I _want _her to feel safe with me, so I've traditionally let her get away with it. 

She was in rare form during that pony play case…she knew the erotic context of the whole thing put me in a whole new orbit of discomfort around her, and she used it to her advantage. Pony play was as valid as any other culture, she told me, and its participants no less 'normal' than any others. So what if someone had to yell "giddyup" to heighten sexual arousal, she had asked me, with a small smile on her face, delighting in my obvious distress at the topic. 

She was wrong about the cause, though. It wasn't talking about sex that made me uncomfortable. It was _her _talking about sex. Fuck the pony players (not literally, of course). It made me wonder what the brilliant genius Dr. Temperance Brennan did at her critical moment to heighten sexual arousal. Did she whisper "fuck me" to her lover between gritted teeth while she threw her head back in abandon? Did she scratch her nails down her lover's back, leaving marks there that would be visible for the rest of the week? Did she grab his hair and force his lips to whatever part of her gave her the biggest thrill, the most pleasure? The possibilities were limitless, really. And _they _were what made me blush, made me stammer.

Part of me always wonders what would happen if I made it a little less safe for her. If I raised the stakes. Maybe I could shut that smart mouth of hers once and for all, when she thought she was being so sly.

I could have done it in the elevator. After she told me we were immersed in a culture, and that the killer we were looking for was obviously a part of it, looking at the symbolism behind the method of murder. Resigning myself to all the weirdness to come, I suggested "Back to the Ambassadora?" as people filtered onto the elevator with us.

To which she replied, with that teasing little smile, "Giddyup." 

I told her not to say that, right before the door closed. Wishing she'd understand….it was for both our sakes. She didn't _want _to know what might happen if I opened myself up to talking about sex around her. 

The elevator had descended slowly, coming to a rest with a soft 'ding' on the next floor down. But still, she taunted me, it seemed talking softly, as more people piled on. "You know, it's times like this when your issues with sex become a detriment to the case." I politely moved to the back of the lift to make room for the newcomers, her taking a position just a bit in front of me. I had thought that maybe she'd just be quiet then, but she had to push me just a little further. "You should work on that."

That's where the memory of my frustration ends. But in my mind, it could have progressed and ended just a little bit differently. On the next floor, when more people got on board (why was no one getting _off? _I laughed at my own pun), she was maneuvered to be positioned right in front of me. And that's where I could have made my move. It could've been so easy to reach out into the small space now between us and put my palm against the roundness of her ass…more than a pat, not quite a squeeze…like a caress, fingers tracing the contour of that enticing part of her body. In my mind, I could have felt her stiffen a little, stand straighter, her eyes darting from side to side to see if anyone was noticing. But they weren't….they were distracted, reading papers, watching the floor counter, waiting for the ride to come to an end so they could get to wherever they needed to be. No one would know the position of my intrepid hands, unless she chose to make an issue of it. That was the choice I could have given her. Make an issue. Or let me "work on" my sex issues.

I could see the pink creeping up the part of her neck I could see, and her choice would have been obvious at that point…I could have become bolder, pressed harder, squeezed her a little through those tight pants she was wearing. Maybe wearing them for me…after all, she had admitted that her wearing lipstick was a way of objectifying herself, so maybe wearing the pants that showed off every curve of her bottom was meant to entice me into doing exactly what I was doing. 

Ding. Next floor down. The person beside me pushed through the crowd in front of us to exit, but two more people got on.

Staring straight ahead, I could have let my hand trail upwards until they touched the material of the sweater she was wearing, then crept up further past the waistband of her pants until I reached bare flesh…the spot on her back that my hand automatically went to when guiding in my preferred direction, and my fingers could've stroked there, softly, before dipping into the waistband a bit, hooking a finger inside to pull out, then push back in the silky tag. I could hear her take a soft, shuddering breath. What's wrong, doctor? You have a problem with getting felt up in a public place?

I myself couldn't have believed I was actually doing this, but she made me so fucking crazy…my cock was getting harder by the second and being exposed once we got to _our _floor, just three away now, was going to be an issue, but I couldn't have brought myself to care. Both of my hands could have now slipped down over her ass, around to her soft hips, kneading there, my colleagues around us still engaged in their coffee and their papers and their lives.

Ding. Next floor. Again, more people getting aboard than exiting, whispering polite 'Excuse me's' to the people they displaced. It would have been getting crowded, hot, and I'd imagine I could smell her getting hotter too. I could have then made my boldest move yet…gripping at her hips, I could have pulled them flush back against my own. She could have felt then the long column of my cock pressing against our pants, fitting snugly into the crack of her ass and throbbing with the pressure of her body against it. I'd have to hold her hips just a little tighter to compensate for the slight sag as (I like to imagine) her knees weakened and she swayed back a bit unsteadily. I could exhale my own pent-up breath against the back of her neck, tickling the tiny hairs there. Tightly, I'd keep her there, for a second, two, three…This is why I can't talk about sex with you, Bones. Because if I did, this is how I'd be walking around all day, and it would _not _be conducive to business. Until…

Ding. Ground floor. The one everyone was waiting for to pour off. The door opened, and at the same time, I released her. She would have practically flown out into the lobby, bumping against some of our elevator-mates and earning her some annoyed looks. I could have sauntered off behind her, hands crossed in front of me but looking otherwise amused at her red face, her indignant expression as she turned and glared at me. Softly, I could say the words that she had provoked me with. "_Giddyup_." Just so she _knew _what had made me do what I did. So she'd think before doing it again.

Her face could have gone 10 different shades of pink, but knowing Bones, she could have still found some way to surprise me. In my mind, I choose to think she would have done it with a slow look of resolve and decorum coming back to her posture and expression. She could walk up to me and look me up and down. Then she'd whisper softly.

"_Why would I have said it if I didn't want to ride?" _

And with a satisfied smile, she'd turn and sway away from me again. And, as always, I could follow.


	4. Tortured

**A/N: Happy Easter! A little Bren-on-Booth comfort here for your Easter basket. I do hope you enjoy. **

**Loves.**

* * *

She wasn't very good at comforting. Actually, she wasn't very good at being comfort_ed, _either, so it was not surprising that when it was someone else who was hurting, feeling pained or alone or scared, that her brilliant mind had one of those rare moments where it went completely blank. What should she do, what should she say? It never came naturally. When were the times that, as Angela said, a simple touch was enough, and what were the circumstances that required more? She had come to accept that she might never be the person who intuitively knew the answers to these questions, but sometimes, later, after the crisis had passed, she thought about other ways she might have been able to help. Ways that may have been more telling, and more impactful.

There was the time when Booth had been kidnapped. For a change. Temperance Brennan had been kidnapped before. She had been bound, held at gunpoint, knocked unconscious, buried alive and held for ransom…a whole assortment of unpleasantness. But she had never been tortured. Not like Booth, who had been tied up and beaten and burned by the very criminals they had been trying to capture. She remembered how sick she had felt, every fiber of her being recoiling at the thought of what _might _be happening to Booth while he was missing. She had reacted to that feeling by doing everything in her power to find him. When she did, she found that all the scenarios she had played through her mind were not too far from the truth. They had hurt him. Badly.

And afterwards, when he was safe, she sat across from him at the diner wincing sympathetically with his every movement, and he brushed off her concern by telling her that he had been tortured worse in the past. Somehow, that did little to ease the ache in her own gut, and she felt helpless in the face of all he had been through. In that moment, she did the only thing that went through her mind…she shared with him the song that she herself had found so comforting when she was a child. And he had sung with her and seemed touched that she would share with him in this way. But when she went home afterwards, it still did not seem to be enough. She couldn't imagine what would ever be enough to heal the wounds that he had acquired.

Later, she thought that maybe, she could have tried harder, done more.

She could have gotten the courage to go back to him later that night, at his apartment. He would have opened the door, surprised, hair damp from the shower he had taken to try to wash away all the aches and the fear and the memories.

"_I brought you something," _she could have said, holding up her excuse from being there. He would have raised his eyebrows at his inability to read any of the characters on the tube in her hand.

"_Do I want to know?"_

She could have explained how she got the salve from Thailand, and how it healed burns faster than any traditional medicine she had ever tried. He would have looked at her warily, questioningly, but he would have trusted her…because he did. She could have led him to his couch and urged him to sit back into the cushions, him protesting that she didn't need to come over to take care of him. _"But you always take care of me after I've been kidnapped," _she could have explained, fingers running lightly over the white bandage that covered his inner thigh, and he would have fallen silent. It was true.

He could have read her face as she removed the bandage and saw the angry, swollen red skin there from where the crime boss and his crony had burned him, trying to get him to tell them where Kennedy was, trying to break him. _"Not pretty, huh?"_

She couldn't have answered that. It would be painful to look at, for sure, reminding her of all the pain he suffered while her and her team and her father fumbled around, trying to find him. But it couldn't have been ugly. Not on him. It would have been just another, visible example of his strength.

"_Booth," _she could have asked, her fingers gentle, applying the balm with a feather-light touch. _"Was this the worst part?" _Knowing that it likely wasn't, and that he wouldn't talk about it unquestioned, without help. He did not like to share his pain…if she wanted it, she would have to coax it from him.

"_No," _would come the expected answer, and she could wait for him to continue because it would take awhile. Her hands could work on preparing the new, clean bandages to cover this painful, exposed part of him, helping it to heal. _"They held the picture I carry of my son. Told me I'd never see him again."_

She could lay the gauze down gently on his wound as she kneeled before him, smoothing it over his strong thigh as she looked up and into his eyes.

"_That made it worse than anything. More than anything that happened there, or in the Middle East. I have so much more to lose now."_

She had no illusions that she would have known what to say then, any more than any other time, but she could have conveyed her empathy through her gaze, through the hands that remained resting lightly on his knee.

"_It hurts, Bones."_

And she could have done the thing she remembered from when she was hurt as a child…the one thing that always made it feel better. She could have leaned over and gently placed a kiss overtop the bandage she just laid, letting her lips linger softly for a moment. Her cheeks could have colored just a little bit as she met his eyes again, and they would have been looking at her more intently than ever before.

"_Does that help?" _she could have asked, knowing that there is no scientific reason why a kiss would decrease pain or help a wound to heal, only knowing that when her mother did it, it seemed to have exactly that effect.

A smile would have touched the corners of his lips, the way it did at the diner earlier when they sang together. _"It would. It does. But…"_

"_But?" _she could have encouraged him, wanting his honesty and very nearly being devastated when he gave it to her.

"_But it hurts everywhere, Bones. Everywhere."_

Reflected in his gaze, she could see evidence of a thousand hurts, a hundred tortures, all culminating in the knowledge and fear that when he went to work in the morning, he could never be entirely sure that he would return to his life, his family, to hug his son, to do the things he loved. So she could have done the only thing she could think of to do.

"_Lay down," _she could have offered softly. He couldn't have known what she intended, but he would have done so. Because he trusted her.

She could have started with his feet, both because they would have been easily accessible to her and because she knew they had once been the recipient of blows that he received, wounds he had attained. She could have heard his surprised, sharp intake of breath when she took his bare foot in her hands and her lips first brush his toes, gently, and he might have startled a bit off the pillow that lay behind his head. But as she made her intentions known, continuing her trail of kisses down to the soles of his feet, down over his heel and around to his ankle, he would have settled back, watching her with wonder.

She could have been slow, and methodical, leaving no inch of uncovered skin unkissed. She could have moved up his calves, his knees, his thighs, finding a few scars along the way but not lingering on them, letting him know that every part of him was just as important as the rest, the wounds just as valuable as the smooth, healthy skin that surrounded them. When she reached the edge of his cotton shorts and traced her way around them with her lips, she could have moved to the other leg, working her way down this time with the moist, light touches of her mouth.

When that was finished, it would be his hands, his arms…she could have kissed each of his fingertips, resisting the urge to give them special treatment and touch her tongue out to the soft pads. His skin could have been velvety under her mouth, and his muscles hard, and she could have poured as much comfort and care and empathy into every touch of her lips against him as she felt. Reaching the sleeve of his t-shirt, she could lean over him to begin the next arm, her body pressing into his side as she hovered, unwilling to miss a millimeter of what was available to her.

Then…his face and neck. His eyes could have fluttered shut while she trailed her moist kisses over his chin, his cheeks, his forehead and down the bridge of his nose, being mindful of the injuries he had attained today, the gentleness of her touch contrasting starkly with the punches and blows he had received. When she reached his eyelids, his lashes softly tickling her lips, she could have been just a little surprised to taste the saltiness of tears there. She would have backed off, speaking to him for the first time since she began this an hour ago.

"_Did I hurt you?"_

Eyes opening, he would have shook his head 'no' sharply, fists rising to his eyes to brush away the tears.

She could have glanced down his body, seeing the expanse of it that was covered by his clothes. _"I would have done the rest," _she could have whispered. _"But I'm not sure it would have been right. Not now."_

Still not speaking, he would have reach up and took her by the shoulders, crushing her to him in a hug so tight that she was certain that _it _had to hurt him, but he would not seem to care. He'd hold her there, and she'd feel the warm wetness from his tears at her hairline.

"_I'm glad you found me today, Bones," _he would have murmured, refusing to release her.

"_I'll always find you," _could be the words that automatically left her lips. She could not have known what prompted her to make the promise, but the small sigh of relief she heard from him let her know it was the right thing to say.

"_I'll always find you, too."_

And then, she could have raised off his aching body, eyes falling on the one exposed part of him she hadn't yet kissed. And as she lowered her head to finish what she had begun, lips trembling against his, she could have known that this was the second time this day that they had found one another.


	5. High Speeds

**A/N: Here's a nice, smutty, **_**non-angsty **_**departure from the emotional nightmare that is What We Deserve. I needed it, and maybe you need it too.**

**Lots of good things are coming your way, beautiful people. Stay on the lookout.**

**Loves.**

**--**

I notice that Special Agent Seeley Booth is a man. Even if I were not an objective, empirical scientist I would notice that. The chiseled face and jaw. The bump of his Adam's apple, which bobbed so visibly every time he was nervous. The broad chest, and the slim hips that his jeans hung low on so well. Yes. Definitely a man. And I notice, because I am a woman.

Which is probably why it irritated me so much when he told me I was like a man.

Yes, I know, he wasn't intending to be mean. But I was still mildly insulted to think that he ignored everything about me that made me a woman. This is why I teased him by reversing the metaphor as we rode in car during the Maggie Cinders case…if I were a guy to him, he was a woman to me. I _knew _it would bug him. That was the point. And, if we are being completely honest, I wanted to bug him. Not just for the "guy" comment, but for the low blow that was sleeping with Cam again. I get it that Booth is under no obligation to get my approval for who he dates. But my _boss? _With whom I was having severe personal and professional issues? Ouch, partner. It was a bit childish, I will admit, the satisfaction I got from seeing him sulk and telling me he preferred not to be a woman. But childish or not, it felt good.

I suppose, if I had thought about it, I could have handled the situation a little more adult-ly. And…just maybe…that could've felt good as well.

I could have pressed the issue about what, exactly, made him see me as a guy. After all, men had complimented me before on my fine features, my firm, high breasts, and the curve of my hips. These features alone made it doubtful that I would be perceived as masculine. And he would have likely stuttered at this, telling me that it wasn't about my appearance, that of course, on the outside, I am very much a woman.

Then what exactly, I could have asked, made me guy-like? My intelligence and professionalism? Our working relationship? Obviously, that couldn't be completely the case, because he had a working relationship with Cam, and _that _didn't keep him from seeing her as a woman. So…it _must _be the sex, I could have reasoned. It was the sexual aspect to the relationship that made him recognize a person's womanhood. And since we had been so very platonic, he just couldn't see the things about me that were feminine. I could just see his increasing discomfort, his squirming as I hypothesized. And it could have made me smile a little.

"_Well, Booth, I don't have a lot of time to try to show you the light," _I could have said, reasonably. _"So let's just get this out of the way, shall we?" _My actions as matter-of-fact as my words, I could have reached over and took his right hand, and casually placed it on my left thigh. I could see his head turn and look down at his displaced hand mechanically, not having understood what I did right away, not having it sink in until the warmth of my inner thigh seeped through the material of my pants, and into his palm. Then, because Booth was Booth, he'd probably pull his hand away as if I had doused it with kerosene and set it on fire.

"_Bones," _he'd admonish with wide eyes that flicked nervously between me and the road. I could be mildly amused by the quick slide of his cockiness into uncertainty.

"_Booth," _I could say with a long-suffering sigh. _"My womanhood is an important part of my identity, and I'd appreciate your acknowledging it. Let's do what we have to do so that you can." _Firmly grasping his hand again, I could move it back to my thigh, keeping my hand overtop of it this time so escape wouldn't be as easy. I could contract my fingers over his once, effectively causing him to squeeze the muscle of my leg. I would smirk a bit in gratification when I felt another squeeze, this one unassisted; that smirk would last until it fully sunk in just how good that pressure felt. It was a dangerous game I could play, in more ways than one.

"_I don't think…" _His actions could belie his words as his fingers move on autopilot, a little further up my leg. My throat would be drying along with his own.

"_Are you and Cam exclusive?" _I could probe, knowing in my own mind the answer; if it were yes, he wouldn't have even played along the little bit that he had.

"_Still…" _I could hear the hesitancy in his voice at the same time his knuckles curled and his short fingernails scratched up the inner seam of my pants. I could fight the urge to jump, remembering that I was supposed to be the one teaching _him _a lesson here. But his hands were huge, and strong, and if I'm honest I would probably underestimate just how much effect they would have on my body. The whole "being a man" thing again.

"_Still," _I could whisper, a little breathlessly now, _"I'm a woman. Can you feel it?" _I would know that he could. Suddenly, it would seem like all the blood in my body was pooling in my lower extremities, and he would have to feel that heat emanating from me in waves, hand as close as it could be to the part of me that was the most undeniably female.

"_Yes." _It could seem like it was the only word he could manage, as one of his fingers found its way to the crease of my thigh. A gasp could leave me at the caress of this sensitive spot, and the sounds of my growing arousal would surprise him. He'd stare for a moment, eyes flickering from my face, to his hand, back to my face. The car would swerve. He'd swear under his breath and drag his eyes away, towards the road. His hand, however, could stay firmly put, although the last of his tentativeness would keep it from moving to the place I most wanted it.

Truthfully, I would be feeling a little less bold now, but the heat of his fingers so close to me would override any self-consciousness, and with a shuddering breath I could make the most daring move yet. Unbuckling my seatbelt (I had given up the pretense of staying safe a few minutes ago, so this would seem like a natural next step), I could slide up and sideways on my seat, head leaning back against the cool glass of the window and my left knee bending up and onto the seat, to open myself up and give him easier access. Giving one last prompt, I could take his large hand in mine one more time and place it directly against the heat of me. _"Booth," _I could command, softly. "_Make me feel like a woman."_

And that, he could do. The thickness of his middle finger could draw up my sex, the pressure causing my pants and panties to cling a little to the damp skin. I'd whimper when the pad reached my clit, noticeably swollen against the thin fabric, and rubbed back and forth, just once, as if making sure it was what he thought it was. My reaction could embolden him, and he'd stroke again more firmly. My head could fall back with a 'bump' against the glass.

Some men handle a women's genitals as they would their own, and end up being too forceful, irritating the sensitive skin. Others treat them as if they might break, frustrating with a cautious touch. But in my fantasy, Booth is expert, even as he necessarily divides his attention between the highway and my needy clit, the perfect integration of firmness and gentleness, rubbing me with a tantalizing rhythm and pressure, occasionally pausing to run his hand down my thigh again, or running his fingernail across the material covering me, making me jump.

"_Yes," _he could murmur, other hand white-knuckled on the steering wheel. _"From what I can feel…definitely a woman." _

Facing away from him, my heavy-lidded eyes could take in all those things I had noticed that made him a man, gaze falling hungrily from his face to his chest to the bulge in his pants. I could imagine for a second ordering him to pull over into some abandoned parking lot somewhere, once stilled putting my own hands to work over the damn annoying console between us, unzipping him and putting the poor, uncomfortable man out of his misery by wrapping my lips around his cock and sucking until he came, gasping and cursing into my mouth. That thought…as it had before…could make the place where all _my _nerve endings came together spark, and I'd suck in air between my teeth and close my eyes against the almost-too-intense images.

He could sense my growing urgency, and he'd know he couldn't stop now…his fingers would rub me back and forth, back and forth, and even through my pants I could feel the friction of the fingertips. Cars would be whizzing by us, and yes, this was _so _dangerous, but now I'd be far beyond caring as the car filled with my (very feminine) moans and the smell of my arousal combined with just a hint of his. My elbow could find itself on the armrest on my right side, and hit the automatic window button. There would be a sudden blast of cold air on my overheated neck and shoulders, and this added stimulation could make me cry out suddenly, surprised into orgasm, pressing up and into his hand with my feet and my elbows and every ounce of energy I still had in me. At the moment the first spasm hit, I could open my eyes and for a split second, catch his, unwilling to miss the moment for mere safety at high speeds.

"_Watch the damn road," _I could moan desperately as the next shock racked me. Luckily, he could hear over the screaming whistle through the open window, and his head would jerk back before we veered over the median. He might move to take his hand away, but I could hold it for another moment, not knowing if I'd ever have the pleasure if it there again. I could let the pulses ride out to a dull throb, then finally release his hand and allow mine to drop to my sides. This time, it could be he who stays pressed against me for an extra few seconds.

When he'd reluctantly pull back, I could take on the somewhat awkward task of rearranging my body into a position less…wanton. The blowing air through the window would suddenly seem more disturbing than refreshing, as if it were sucking the air out of my lungs. Silently, I could pull the button, and the whistling sound would quickly dwindle until all that was left was the sound of the road, our breathing, and the static of the radio which had lost its station awhile back. We'd glance at each other, neither quite knowing what to say.

"_Well," _I could say weakly. _"I hope you learned something."_

"_That I've been sleeping with the wrong woman?"_

I'm startled out of my fantasy. Is _that _the lesson I had been trying to teach him?

Maybe.

"_Maybe," _I could whisper. And even though it was _my _fantasy, the word sounded unsure.

"_Definitely," _he could agree, with a breathless smile at me. And, in my mind, a part of me thrilled with joy.

In my mind, that day wouldn't end with a "guy hug."


	6. Karaoke

**A/N: So many people wrote such lurvely post-eps to Wannabe. **

**Miss SSJL, however, remains firmly in denial about what exactly happened at the end of that epi. She lives in a happy dreamworld.**

**Hence, the could haves…**

**--**

Jesus H. Christ. She was the most adorable thing to have ever walked or crawled or merely existed in this universe. He had accused her of thinking she was better than him sometimes. Well, now he saw that if she had thought that, she would have been right. She _was _better than him, better than _anybody. _And it had nothing to do with her bestselling authoring, or her forensic anthropologizing, or any of the thousand things she did that gave her elevated status. Maybe just a little. But those weren't the things that nearly made him fall out of his chair with pangs of adoration of her.

It was her, bouncing around onstage in a karaoke dive, belting out Cyndi Lauper like her very life depended on it, hamming it up for him and their friends as she danced and sang. It was the most beautiful goddamn thing he had ever seen in his life. He could see the intersection right then: the sexy, intelligent woman he worked with, and the 'tween girl, singing into her hairbrush while her mother laughed and clapped. Her enthusiasm was infectious, her joy palpable. And he was enraptured, unable to turn away, helpless to the grin that was nearly making his face hurt.

It was only because of the frightening desperation he heard in the voice calling his name that he turned, and saw that woman holding a gun, aiming it at his unsuspecting partner. He couldn't believe the audacity of Pam at that moment. He could understand crazy; he saw it all the time. But she wasn't even trying to hurt Bones right now. It was like she was trying to snuff out happiness and innocence and love itself. Who would do that? Standing in the way of the bullet was instinctive. His dying would have been a small sacrifice. He knew it hitting the floor, through the pain…when he saw her hovering over him, gripping his hand, willing him back to life. He had saved an angel. That was all that was important.

The good news was that he didn't die. The bad news was that the little "getting shot" incident very rudely interrupted what could have happened that night. What _should have _happened after his realization that she _was _his American idol, the star of all his fantasies.

She could have finished her performance with a flourish, receiving a standing ovation from the crowd in front of her. She'd be beaming, knowing that maybe her friends didn't expect her to actually follow through with the dare, know that once again, she proved her point, came out on top. Looking straight at him before she climbed down from the stage, she could have stuck her tongue out at him like the child she was for just a few moments, and he could have grinned, his hands coming together slowly, appreciatively. _Get down here, Bones. _She'd climbed down almost primly, face flushed from her dancing and the rush of exhibitionism, eyes sparkling. And he could have enfolded her in his arms.

"_Thanks for believing in me, Booth," _she could have whispered. He wouldn't have wanted to let her go, so strong and vibrant and _her _as she was in his arms. But her other friends would have wanted their turn, too, so he could have released her and been content for awhile just watching her interact with them outside of the lab, outside of her scientist persona that she so often used as a barrier against the rest of the world. He could have bought her a beer, and slid his chair close to hers, hand slung around the back of it. That night, they couldn't have been Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth. They'd be best friends. They were anyway.

Sweets could have sang his "impressive" rendition of Lime in Da Coconut, and they could have made fun of him throughout…it couldn't have been nearly as surprising to see him acting young and frivolous, but it still would have been entertaining, and they could have rested their heads together while they laughed. Maybe Angela and Jack could have gotten into the act, jointly belting out "I Got You Babe" into the microphone, or Zack could have could have shown off his apparently phenomenal (so he heard) vocal range with one show tune or another. At the end of the night, he would have felt warm, buzzing, his stomach a little sore from all the laughing. She could have offered to drive his tipsy ass home, and he could readily agree to that request, happy to have their time together extended even for the 15 minutes it took to travel to his apartment by car.

He could beg her to sit with him while he finished sobering up, and she'd probably see her opportunity there. _"Not unless you admit it."_

"_Admit what?" _he'd say innocently

"_You said my mother wasn't being truthful."_

He could sigh dramatically. _"I was wrong. You are as good as Cyndi Lauper. Better. The best."_

She'd be surprised by that, although she'd likely write it off to the alcohol. _"You're being very agreeable."_

"_I owe you."_

Her head could lower while she relented, sitting next to him on his couch. _"Sweets said I'm a very controlled person. And it'd be good for me to let go."_

In that moment she'd seem suddenly unsure.

"_I liked seeing you like that," _he'd tell her, softly.

"_How?" _Looking up, he could catch her eyes, be drawn into the sweet blue depths.

He could whisper. _"Out of control."_

She'd look at him almost shyly through the silky fringe of her eyelashes. _"You haven't seen me out of control."_

Swallowing thickly, a million interpretations of his words could have run through his mind. It was so hard to tell with her sometimes…whether she was being straightforward as usual, or metaphorical, or funny, or…suggestive. Provocative. He couldn't have known what to say. His usual reserve of witticisms would leave him.

"_You don't think I looked ridiculous up there?" _she could ask, head tilted in a question.

"_No." _Throat dry. _"You looked…sexy." _He couldn't believe the words had left him. He couldn't believe that instead of looking disgusted, or flabbergasted, she looked…considering.

"_Hmm." _A slight smile to her lips. _"Hey. You want a drink of water?"_

"_Yeah," _he could agree, not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved by her change in topics. With a last look, she'd stand, moving gracefully around the couch and to the kitchen. He'd realize it was _his _kitchen, and follow to help. Grabbing two cups out of the cupboard, he'd hear her humming as she opened the door to the freezer.

"_I wanna be the one to walk in the sun…oh girls, they wanna have fun..." _

And he could have been back there at that bar, watching her, being amazed by her, adoring her, and without even knowing how it got in the position he'd be practically standing on top of her when she turned from the refrigerator with the ice tray in her hand, and the tune could die on her lips.

"_Ice?" _she could ask weakly, but despite the chill from the just-opened freezer, the temperature in the room would be suddenly scalding.

"_I'm in love with you," _he could tell her, the words bypassing his brain to come out his mouth, right before the (thankfully plastic) cups and the ice tray clattered from their hands to the floor. And then, she could have been pressed up against the magnets and drawings made by his son and the cool metal of the fridge while he kissed her desperately, his guilty hands roaming her hips and sides and shoulders.

He'd feel like he didn't have the right to touch her this way. He didn't deserve to see her, or smell her, or love her, so perfect was she of the blue lab coats and bestselling books and the crazy karaoke. He'd know it, and still be helpless against the warm silkiness of her lips, the wet sweep of her tongue against his, the pliant press of her breasts against his chest.

His kiss could have unleashed something inside of her…he knew that it would, because as controlled as she was, when Temperance Brennan trusted in something or someone, she went for it. This was the woman who pushed her gum into his mouth with her "sexless" Christmas kiss. This was the woman who let an entire courtroom believe she might be a murderer, so that they could have reasonable doubt about her father's guilt.

He could have been hard for her in a split second.

"_I'm sorry, Bones," _he could have groaned against the flesh of her throat, while she tilted her head back against the fridge and arched her chest out toward him, but he couldn't have stopped.

"_Why are you apologizing to me?" _she could have gasped.

"_You're…too good…too much…" _His hands could slip under the hem of her shirt, caressing her bare belly, feeling the muscles flutter under his touch.

"_It wouldn't be in my best interest to sleep with someone who's beneath me," _she could gasp into his shoulder, her pulling off his jacket frantically telling him that she certainly didn't see him as beneath her. She saw him under her, on top of her, and (he hoped to God) inside of her, but not beneath her.

There couldn't have been much in the way of thought then…there could have been impulses, emotions, fate, but his attentions were focused only on the here and now…the flesh that was in front of him at that very moment, the sounds she was making at that second, the almost audible beating of his heart then and there. He could have pushed away the layers of clothes she wore, one by one, like doing his best to savor the moment of unwrapping a long-waited-for gift. She could have gotten impatient and pushed him, sending him reeling backwards into his kitchen counter, staring at her wide-eyed. What could she do next? _Anything. Anything she wanted._

"_Why tonight?" _she could have asked breathlessly, softly, as she encroached upon him, fingers reaching for the button of his pants. Temperance Brennan could be taking his pants off, and he'd be supremely grateful for the cheap Formica at his back that he was gripping to keep from falling over and making a fool of himself.

"_I saw you…" _he could explain, lamely, but honestly.

"_You see me every day," _she'd murmur, pulling his jeans down over his hips, focused as ever, on _him._

"_Not like this." _His vision and his tactile perception could appear to be disconnected, while he watched her, trailing kisses down his firm stomach, moving those angel's lips downwards, the sensation not quite reaching him until it sunk in just how _close _she was to…_"Oh God."_

Her eyes could have been locked on his disbelieving ones as her mouth teased him, enveloping him, showing him in carnal detail just how worthy of her attentions she found him. And it could have been _so _much, out of this world, but it couldn't have been enough. He couldn't have let it end there. He would need to see her…

With willpower of steel, he could have drug her back up his body, hungrily devouring her lips and throat and breasts as he flipped her, lifted her up onto the countertop and pulled at her panties. _"Out of control," _he could have panted. _"Show me…"_

In agreement, she could have grasped at his hips, pulled him, fit them to hers between her legs, him still wet from her mouth and her wet from the things he had done to her, how he'd made her feel. And like he could never forget the pure joy and watching her sing and dance and be free, the image of her face as he first joined her body would be burned into his brain for the rest of his life. God. He loved that face. He loved her…

And she could have showed him. She could have been wild, abandoned, crying out for him, trusting him to shield her tossing head from the wooden cabinets with his hand. Words he would have never expected her to say could fall from her lips and into his. He could have watched her, until he heard her begging him to be there with her. She wasn't a star on the stage, an idol on a pedestal. She was his friend and his partner and his lover and his equal, and the second he felt it was true they could have fallen together, with each other's name on their tongues and eyes locked together the way they had been doing since they met. Only now, the look wasn't a challenging one. It could have been the look of total surrender.

Maybe, when she finally collapsed against him, although his legs would be jelly and his body near-stunned, he could have lifted her, carried her to the bedroom, made love with her more purposefully. Maybe he could have covered her with his jacket, and they could have laid on the couch, quietly confessing everything they had been feeling, the growing inevitability of what they were together. Maybe they just could have slept, letting the morning bring them to a new place, a new understanding.

But instead…he got shot.

Later, as he lie in the hospital bed, musing over the could haves, it would strike him how something always seemed to get in the way of them. Some of those interferences, like the delusional stalker who took away the possibilities on this night, were not their faults. Occupational hazards.

Some of those barriers were self-imposed.

One could wonder what it would take to knock them down.


End file.
